Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence.
In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
“You’re putting words in my mouth! Darling, I didn’t say you ‘couldn’t’ do it, I just said you wouldn’t!”
Olivia huffed at her husband. She drained the last of her Moscato, turning toward the sliding door.
“Well, if the topic of conversation out here is going to be things I can and cannot do, then I’m going back inside…”
Rachel jumped up, still playing hostess.
“Don’t mind him! He’s just being dumb. I’m out too, you stay and I’ll get us more.”
She took Olivia’s glass and slid though the backdoor, negotiating her way through the guests inside. So far the party had been successful; it was tasteful and elegant without feeling stifled.
It had been raining all day. Now the sun was setting and the clouds were finally breaking up. Olivia and Roger, along with Carl, Rachel’s husband, were out on the back patio. The crowd inside was starting to get a bit stuffy, and Carl wanted to smoke one of his stinky little cigars.
Roger stepped over, squeezing her shoulders.
“I know as well as anybody, there’s nothing you can’t do if you put your mind to it. All I’m saying, is you know better! It’s not worth the trouble. Look, even if you could make it all the way down, then you’d have to come back up…”
Olivia pushed him away.
“Now there you go again! You don’t think I could do it!”
Carl, from his seat in a deck chair, protested.
“Ah Liv, I don’t think that’s what he means. It was a stupid thought to begin with, forget I said anything!”
She crossed her arms and stared out off the deck and down the sloped backyard.
Rachel came back, a brimming wineglass in each hand. Passing one to Olivia, she settled on the arm of Carl’s chair.
“So, are we over that whole silly business now?”
Roger gave her a wink and a smile.
Still in a pouting, impulsive mood, Olivia sipped her wine. She mentally weighed her options. Her dress was red, knee-length and v-necked; it was nice enough, but she picked it up on sale for a steal. It was Rachel’s party, so she’d understand. Her hair gave her a moment’s pause; it was dark brown and trimmed to the nape of her neck, cut to balance grown-up efficiency and youthful cuteness. But she really liked how it looked tonight, flipped up and swept to the side. And it went with the smokiness around her eyes she’d finally mastered…
Nope. Didn’t matter. This was about proving a point to Roger. She drained her glass in a long gulp.
“I’m doing it.”
Roger smiled softly, offering his palms in supplication.
“Whatever you want dear.”
Carl was making an effort to keep his face neutral. Rachel was grinning slightly.
“Headfirst, sweetie.” She pantomimed pulling up the bottom of her own dress.
Olivia nodded. She wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t sober either. It was now or never.
Leaving her purse and heels behind, she stepped off the deck onto the rain-soaked grass. The lawn ended abruptly at the crest of the slope. There was a shallow channel cut in the hill, where stairs were going to be placed. The channel led down to the bottom, near the edge of a rectangular pit; where the pool was going to be built. Right now, having just been dug, the future-pool was only a light-brown indentation in the stretch of grass at the bottom.
She considered the route, banishing any second thoughts. The path down was damp and shiny. It looked plenty slippery. Olivia took a deep breath, and dove into the channel, headfirst.
It was a lot like a flume ride at a water park, or an extra-slick playground slide. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel herself picking up speed. Mud flecks sprayed everywhere, but she didn’t care. This was a cakewalk; she was going to make it to the bottom easily. With momentum to spare. Maybe too much…
From the deck, they watched the red blur zip down the impromptu-mudslide. They watched her reach the bottom, and hit the grassy burm separating future-stairs from future-pool. They heard Olivia’s exclamation, as she left the ground.
“Eep!”
She landed in the pre-pool on her stomach, vanishing in the mire with a splash. It wasn’t just mud, but the dirty rainwater making up the rest of the mixture wasn’t much better. It wasn’t deep either; once she floundered onto her knees, the slop only reached the middle of her thighs. She spat out some of the mud, which covered her completely, noting that the muck was deep enough.
Olivia stood shakily, aware that bare feet offered very little traction. Any boozy fog was gone. Surprising, how swiftly an unexpected mud-bath can sober you up. She felt twenty pounds heavier soaked and muddy, and the mass of ooze caked on her head clung tight. Feeling her way to the edge, she wiped her hands on the grass, enough to clear her eyes and see where she was going.
Up on the deck, they were staring down, just barely not laughing. Rachel called to her.
“Oh wow, Liv! I’m going to get my old gym shoes, so you can get back up! You two! Go get her! I’ll bring towels.”
Rachel disappeared into the house, just as a giggling fit overwhelmed her. The men both stood. Framed by the glow coming from the party inside, in the falling light Olivia could see them plainly.
Cigar in his teeth, Carl shrugged ruefully, wearing a ‘you win’ expression. He drew his wallet and handed Roger several bills. Smiling slyly, Roger slid the money into his pocket. He turned and waived happily to his mud-coated wife, while Carl tucked his wallet away before Rachel returned.
Suddenly everything made sense. Olivia waved back, her expression hidden under the mud. She scooped a handful of the grey-brown glop out of her dress. Oh, they were going to have a long talk on the ride home…
Disclaimer:Although this story mentions real persons and places, it is purely a work of fiction. The story does NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity mentioned. The events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
This story contains nudity
“Welcome to this very special episode of CSWL with me your host Anna Woolhouse”
“Tonight we have a game from the Capital One Cup between Championship Derby County and League One Brentford so now lets meet out Derby County fan shall we, it is Liberty X Singer Kelli Young”.
“So Natalie how do toy think your team will do tonight,”
“Well Anna we maybe in the League below but I think it will be extremely close and we can pull off a little upset here.
“Thanks Natalie, before I reveal the score I will tell you the forfeits for this evening”.
A bucket of custard for every yellow card for your team.
A bucket of strawberry Jam for every red card
A custard pied for every 2% difference in possession
Lose an item of clothing for every foul your team commits.
Both the ladies look shocked at this statement now on to the goal forfeits.
1-0 the gunge tank
2-0 the pillories
3-0 a bath of honey
4-0 the dunk tank and strip to your underwear
5-0 gunged in the opposing teams colours naked.
“So I sincerely hope you don’t lose 4-0 or 5-0 any of you as their will be dire consequences, now we got the forfeits out-of-the-way now it’s time to reveal the score of the match.
Derby County 5-0 Brentford
Martin 19,77
Sammon 36,71
Hughes 38
“Natalie looks totally shocked at the score-line as it means she will suffer the ultimate humiliation of getting naked on national television to get covered in gunged but before we get her to do that lets ask her how she is feeling.”
“So Nat, how are you feeling right now.”
“How do you think Anna, I am just about to get naked on live tv i didn’t expect to get whooped by so many goals.”
“Well rules are rules ao Natalie please can you strip now please”.
Natalie starts by taking of the black gloves she is wearing, then she goes to the back of her dress and lets it fall to the floor revealing a matching pair of revealing black bra and panties combination, she then slowly unzips her bra to reveal her massive breasts to the country but she covers them up with one arm not trying to reveal too much to the live audience, she then contorts in a variety different ways trying not to reveal her shaving vagina and covers it up, but now she will have to as she has to take her shoes off, and reveal everything but Natalie is very careful as she bends down so no-one can see her vagina and only the top of her breasts as she takes her shoes off with both hands.
“Thanks for that Natalie but now please remove your hands from where they are placed and give everyone a wave”.
“No make me” screams Natalie
“Ok if you don’t I will add another forfeit for you to endure” exclaims Anna
Natalie gingerly does as she is told revealing everything to the world.
“Now onto the forfeits” pronounces Anna
First up we have fouls committed.
Derby had 9 to Brentford’s 6
Kelli looks shocked at this news
“You may have won the match but your team sure like to play it dirty so please remove your dress.”
Kelli slow removes her dress revealing a matching pair of white bra and knickers.
“Now for the bra”.
Kelli slowly unzips her bra covering her breasts as much as possible.
“Now for the knickers”.
Like Natalie before her Kelli contorts in a variety of different ways, not trying to reveal too much.
“As you have 9 forfeits to pay I will include the shoes as 1 item each, so your first shoe, please, and now the second”.
Kelli takes her shoes of and now for the jewellery, which brings the forfeits up to 6 but as Kelli still has 3 forfeits left to play they will be liquid forfeits.
“Kelli as your team like to play dirty and you still have 3 forfeits left I have some mud for you”.
Anna slowly pours the mud all down Kelli’s black hair and over her dark body.
The next bucket Anna has is a bucket of sand which she pours over Kelli and it sticks to the mud, with the final bucket, that is grass cutting for Kelli leaving her a muddy, sandy, grassy mess.
“Now Kelli your team picked up one yellow card and that means 1 bucket of custard for you”.
Anna slowly tips the custard over Kelli turning her bright yellow, with custard soaking into the mud.
“Thank you Kelli that is you done you can go and sit down and watch the rest of the show now”.
“Can’t I go and put my clothes on”. Asks Kelli
“No you have to sit there for the rest of the show”. Exclaims Anna
“Now Natalie time for you and I am going to enjoy this immensely”. Says Anna
“As you are already naked looks like you are going to have to pay 6 forfeits for the 6 fouls your team committed”.
Like Kelli Anna has another bucket of mud that she pours all over Natalie, which is then followed by the sand and the grass cutting, then for the fourth bucket Anna has water which Anna throws over Natalie and it washes must of the mess of revealing Natalie’s naked body once more, the next bucket is a bucket of yellow gunge to represent the sun and then finally some white foam to represent snow, leaving Natalie like a snow woman.
“Now that is out-of-the-way Natalie we have the forfeits for yellow cards and as your team only got 1 as well that means only one bucket of yellow custard for you.”
Anna pours the custard of the foamy Natalie turning her into a yellow blob.
“As there was only 2% difference in the position that means only one custard pie for Natalie to endure”.
Anna smashes it right into the centre of Natalie’s face and the cream falls off and onto the floor.
“Now it’s time for the goal forfeits first up we have the gunge tank, so Natalie please step inside.
Anna pulls the lever and a torrent of black gunge comes down and hits Natalie right on the top of the head and then fans out all over her body.
“Next up we have the pillories”.
Anna locks Natalie into the pillories before assaulting her with custard pies and buckets of multicolored gunge to leave Natalie a rainbow coloured mess.
“Next up we have the bath, and Natalie as you are a Brentford fan, and their nickname is the bees we have a bath full of honey for you to get in and duck your head under for 10 seconds.”
Natalie gingerly walks into the bath slowly gets down into it before ducking her head under the surface for 10 seconds.
“Natalie you may come up now, thank you very much”.
“Now we have the gunk dunk where the gunge is a nice blue and red colour”.
Natalie is sat on top of gunk dunk, where Anna pulls the lever and Natalie goes flying in head first, and the a stream of yellow and green gunge hits Natalie from above covering her even more.
Now for the grand finale where Natalie is in the gunge tank yet again, but this time the gunge is white and black to represent Derby County’s colours.
Anna pulls the lever releasing the stream of gunge all over Natalie leaving her an absolute mess.
“That’s it for this special episode of CSWL join us again soon where more celebrities will be putting themselves on the line in support of their football clubs its goodbye from my two special messy guests Kellie and Natalie and it’s goodbye from me Anna……….”
Anna is cut off mid-sentence by Kelli and Natalie who grab Anna by both arms and they lock her int the pillories, where the proceed to strip Anna naked like them.
They then assault Anna with the remaining buckets that is left over, before, throwing her into the bath of honey and then the gunk dunk, before throwing her into the gunge tank where they pull the lever and yellow and green gunge hits Anna from above.
Anna exits the gunge tank before stating again” it’s goodbye from my two special messy guests Kelli and Natalie and also goodbye from me your now also messy naked host Anna Woolhouse”.
Thanks Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.to Wam Jake and the Messy Scenes Blog. As Jake pointed out, some of the hits are a bit weak, but there is a pleasing surprising at the end (probably not so pleasing to the girls).
This story is purely a work of fiction. It does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence. In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
Author’s Note: Another adventure for Nat. This time she comes across somebody else who happens to like something a little different, so this is not an exclusively wam-related story. Still, there’s some slop and embarrassment all around. It’s a bit longer than my last two as well, so let me know what you think about branching out like this. Enjoy.
The puddle hit Natalie full in the face. The muddy street water from one of the city’s broken drains stung as it slapped her with a cold that left her whole body chilled. So much for the rain coat. The weather was drech, as the locals would call it, while newcomer Natalie could think of some harsher terms that might be appropriate. She was slowly getting used to navigating a new city and avoiding stumbling in front of buses as she moved around campus, but she could not imagine living with such awful weather until the honours degree was in her hands. She wiped her face with a gloved hand, still astonished to have to be wearing these things in late September, and saw through clouded vision the brake lights of the little hatchback that had so thoughtlessly cruised through a kerbside pool and left her soaked.
What a day. She had only two lectures, but somehow they both had tipped precariously toward disaster. For her first, she realised ten minutes too late she was sitting in the wrong lecture hall. That awkward walk of shame, scrambling out with her laptop and bag, knowing from the whispers and the sensation of so many beady eyes on the back of her head that her faux pas was public knowledge. What else could her reason be for leaving so, so early but that she had cluelessly sat down surrounded by unknown faces and not even twigged what was going on until the unfamiliar lecturer began to explain anatomy? Dammit, Jim, she was an Art student, not a doctor.
Lecture two had gone just fine until toward the end, where during a lull as the lecturer switched some slides, Natalie and shifted back in her seat. The squeal of her black trousers against an ancient leather cushion filled the hall, followed by the requisite giggling. There was pointing, too; she caught it out of the corner of her eye. Bloody barbarians, had they never heard that it was rude to point?
After classes, Natalie had a quick bite to eat and headed to the library for some studying, only to find the doorman waving people away. The towering glass landmark stood dark against the evening; apparently a power-cut had left the building unusable. That was three, Natalie assumed, following that adage that bad luck comes in sets of three. As her face dripped onto her sodden burgundy jumper and her dark trousers gleamed like the wet road, she sighed. So much for that.
On arriving in the city, Natalie had rented a two-bedroom flat above a shop, and got that Pulp song stuck in her head for all of Fresher’s Week. Being a hard-up student, she naturally was splitting the bills, and found herself having signed up to be in the company of a dance student named Keira. Finally getting home, Natalie unlocked the door and heard her room-mate’s voice carrying from the bathroom.
“Who’s there?”
“Just me, Keira,” said Natalie. She kicked off her boots, grimaced as her black socks soaked up icy water from the floor in the hall. “Looks like your quiet night in won’t be entirely alone, the library’s shut.”
“Um… what do you mean, shut?” Keira’s voice rang from the bathroom hitting the tub and the tiles and echoing round the old tenement. There was a tinge of urgency to it, as least as far as Natalie could tell from a room-mate she had hardly spoken to over the last few weeks. Natalie approached the bathroom door and talked to the light gleaming from the crack beneath it.
“Power-cut. I couldn’t even get in. You all right in there?”
“Um…” Keira called. Natalie heard fidgeting, the rustle of the shower curtain, the clatter of the radiator.
“Are you in there with Bill?” Natalie asked. “Look, sorry if I’m interrupting something, I know I said I’d be back late. I thought you were just going to be on your own. I can go… somewhere.” As she spoke, Natalie lifted each foot and pulled off her wet socks. She was not looking forward to going back out in that, and if she had to, it’d be with warm and dry feet.
“Well, I had plans with Bill but he called about an hour ago and said he was called in to cover for someone at the pub. So I’m just sort of… stuck here.”
“That’s fine,” Natalie said with a shrug. “Just let me know when you’re done, I’d like to take a shower. It’s pouring outside.”
She turned to go, her bare heel creaking on a floorboard that was already familiar to her.
“No, wait!” cried Keira. Natalie spun and gripped the door handle, startled by the plea.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… look, I kind of need your help. Could you come in here? The door’s unlocked.”
Cautiously, Natalie turned the handle and nudged open the door. She wasn’t sure what to expect; other than occasional comments over breakfast and while watching TV, her room-mate had mostly kept to herself. Natalie hadn’t even been inside her room. So much for all the films about Sorority Sisters becoming intimate friends and laying together in their nighties, chatting and getting drunk when they were supposed to be studying together. That kind of closeness seemed like another world from Natalie’s experience of university life so far, and joining an almost-stranger in the bathroom was a quantum leap. What exactly were they about to share, here? Was she ill? Doing her hair?
Natalie stopped in the doorway, not sure where to look. Despite being on the toilet, Keira wasn’t naked, so that was a plus. She wore a jogging outfit of a little black sports bra and tiny black shorts. They glistened a little in the harsh light from the bare bulb overhead, along with her skin; she was damp all over with sweat. Keira’s arms were held above her head, clinging to the towel-rail by the toilet where she sat. What held her arms, Natalie could not help but notice with inescapable clarity, was a pair of shiny handcuffs.
“Um…” said Natalie.
Keira blushed, looking at her feet as they curled against the base of the toilet bowl. “Probably no point in telling you this isn’t what it looks like. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but Bill and I… we thought we’d have the place to ourselves. He sent me a text to get ready and then he tells me he can’t come, right after I close…,” she said, indicating upwards with her eyes. “They lock on closing, and I can’t even use my bloody phone,” she added, nodding to the pink-cased mobile sat on the edge of the sink.
Natalie didn’t know what to say. She knew Keira and Bill were, well, physical, and she guessed some evidence of that may crop up at some point in such close quarters. But what was she supposed to do with this kind of information being dropped in her lap, so to speak? How would a quip at breakfast or a sarcastic comment over the television ever be the same between them, now that Natalie knew that sometimes Keira let herself be shackled for kicks?
What would Keira think if she knew what had given Natalie some kicks?
Natalie shook her head, trying to rid herself of all the questions and judgements and fears. Focus. Be practical. The sooner this little episode ends the sooner they can do what British people do best: pretend it never happened. “Where’s the key?”
Keira closed her eyes, cringing. Not a good sign. Nor was the long breath Keira took as she hesitated to tell. “I wanted Bill to get it, so before I put them on I put the key… kinda in my shorts.”
Natalie blinked. “Kinda?”
“Kinda inside the underwear inside my shorts.”
Natalie swallowed. “You put the key in your knickers?”
Even with her eyes closed, Keira turned her head away, her cheeks flushing anew. She squirmed her hips on the toilet seat, making its old creak ring around the bathroom. “Knickers might be a generous word for them.”
Natalie put her hand to her mouth. Her cheeks felt as hot as Keira’s looked, maybe even worse. Whose bright idea was this? She couldn’t believe she was about to utter the next question. “Front or back?”
“Back,” said Keira after a gulp. “Right against–”
“I get it. Maybe I can cut the chain…”
Keira shook her head. “It’s real metal, they’re not toys. Well, they *are* toys, but, you know.”
Natalie looked up to her room-mate’s hands. The fingers wriggled in their trap. “Maybe I could pull down the towel-rail.”
“No!” Keira exclaimed. “We’ll lose our deposit on the flat if we start pulling things off the wall. Pleeease, Nat, help me.”
Natalie sighed. “Fine,” she said. She knelt by the bowl, rested a hand on her room-mate’s knee. Up close, Natalie could tell that Keira worked out. Her dancer’s body was skinny, but toned, with sinewy muscle that arced and rippled gently beneath the surface. Natalie was also face-to-nose with a smooth, damp armpit whose warm scent was something of a clue. Not to mention the outfit; taut Lycra encasing the young woman’s most private areas and little else, providing an emphasis rather than shrouding them. Natalie peeled the waist-band of the shorts back and slid her hand in between two firm curves.
“Mmmph,” whimpered Keira.
“Sorry,” Natalie whispered, trying to make this as quick yet as careful as possible. The last thing she needed was to go too fast and start touching even more awkward and intimate things. This was one way to get to know her room-mate. Natalie felt along the silky smooth line of a white thong which peeked just above the shorts, and found the rigid lump that was the key. When she carefully touched it, Keira jumped.
“Sorry,” Natalie said again.
“It’s ok,” Keira breathed. “It’s just… well, you know where it is.”
“Right,” said Natalie. She carefully nudged it from its resting place, slipping it out from between the thong’s thin strap and her room-mate’s… well, Natalie hoped the key would be washed soon. Once she had a good grip between her thumb and finger, she pried her hand out from the tight material, feeling it press back in against Keira’s cheeks.
“Sorry about the dampness,” Keira whispered. “I’ve been here a while, and I kinda had to go to the bathroom.”
Natalie winced, but soon shook the look off her face. “It’s all right,” she replied. “Could happen to anyone.” She stood up and unlocked the cuffs, releasing Keira.
Keira sagged on the toilet and rubbed her hands and wrists, relieved at not having them held overhead any more. She looked Natalie in the eye, and beamed.
“Thank you,” said Keira. “You were a big help.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Natalie. Like, ever.
“Guess I could do with a shower,” Keira added. She reached over to the tub and turned on the water. “Stay with me for a bit? I’ll keep this on, it needs washed anyway, though it’s not like being naked would be any more embarrassing than what you just saw.”
Natalie, washing her hands in the sink, nodded and smiled. “Sure,” she said, wishing she had the guts to just run to her room. Talking to her in the shower, after this? How awkward could one night get?
“You’re probably wondering whose idea it was,” Keira began, stepping into the tub. She let the water run over her, soaking her bra and shorts, leaving the black material gleaming. Natalie glanced up; she could see her own face reflected, just for a moment, in the shine adorning Keira’s slender bosom. Keira raised her arms and slicked back her hair, rippling taut muscles across her athletic body in a motion even Natalie had to describe as sexy. That simple move practically spelled out sex appeal, and it drove Natalie mad the easy with which she saw friends, actors and models appeared to have perfected it. Natalie sometimes tried it in the shower herself, but always felt so clumsy and awkward. Sexy seemed so easy; so why did she find it so hard?
Keira’s fingers gripped the edges of her taut sports bra, and she already began to tug the sodden material from her skin. “Would you mind getting the curtain?” she asked.
Natalie stared. Looking at a shadowy figure through a curtain, crammed into this tiny bathroom, the term confession seemed strangely apt. Particularly given her upbringing. How many times had she found herself stuffed into a cubicle with a strange man and ordered to reveal her most intimate of secrets and sins? Not any more than she’d had to, that was for damn sure.
“There is no Bill,” Keira said.
“Wait, what? What happened to him?”
“I made him up,” Keira explained. “I mean, I guess there are Bills out there, and I did go on one date with a Bill in high school. He wasn’t all that interested, though, just seemed to want to be able to say he had sex at some point in his miserable high school existence and then he ran away when I showed him my toys…”
Natalie shivered and gripped the seat a little tighter.
“Seriously though, I don’t have a boyfriend called Bill. Or a boyfriend at all.”
Natalie’s gaze was drawn to the towel rail. “So you just got yourself half naked and locked yourself up for fun?”
“Yep,” came the voice through the curtain. It sounded strangely believable.
“Seriously?!” Natalie exclaimed. “And you wanted me to go fishing in your bum for the bloody key?”
“No, no, that wasn’t part of the plan,” Keira insisted. “Look, I really am sorry you had to get involved. The cuffs, I got them from ebay. They’re supposed to have a safety catch that gets you out, even without the key. Unfortunately it broke. Only my second time trying them, too. Want to know when the first time was?”
“No!”
“When you went swimming with your cousin,” Keira continued, bulldozing ahead. “Anyway, I guess I should let you know I kind of like doing this to myself. I like locking myself up, getting stuck in some predicament, and pretending I’m helpless. Actually being so, not so much, but the pretending is nice. I find it relaxing, I guess, giving up control like that. You know what I mean?”
Natalie swallowed once more. She looked at the floor, too embarrassed to even gaze at the silhouette against the curtain. “I suppose so,” she murmured.
“So I hope you’re ok with that. I thought I might be in trouble if you found me, a lot of roomies wouldn’t be nearly so understanding. They’d think I’m a freak or something, but everybody does it.”
“Everybody handcuffs themselves to the towel-rail and steeps in their own sweat?”
“Well, no,” Keira laughed. “But just about everybody has something they’re into that seems a bit different. For me it’s a little bondage, and I’m sure there’s something for yourself as well.”
Natalie shook her head. “N-no, not that I’m aware of.”
The shower squeaked to a stop. Keira peeled back the curtain enough to stick her sodden head out. “Really? Not a thing?”
Natalie shook her head again.
“But you get what I mean, right?” asked Keira. “You’ve heard of people having… things they enjoy?”
“Sure,” Natalie said. “Um… I even knew a gi–guy, he was really excited by the idea of… look, do you remember when we were watching TV last week?”
Keira looked nonplussed. “We watched a lot of TV last week.”
“We watched some game-show, and somebody got…” Why was the word so hard to say? Natalie forced it from her tongue. “Got gunged.”
“Oh, right,” said Keira, not seeming to get it. Then, a broad grin. “Riiiight. Your friend likes that sort of thing, does he?”
“Right,” gushed Natalie. “I don’t understand the appeal myself, but whatever floats your boat, right?”
“Right,” Keira repeated. She grabbed a towel and pulled it behind the curtain, then swiftly appeared wrapped and dripping. “You’ll probably want to get in after me. Should be some hot water left. Sorry to keep you so long, with you being out in the rain and everything.”
“That’s fine,” said Natalie, forcing a smile. Soon this awkward exercise would be over, and she could stand in the shower in peace and warmth and not have to keep talking about these things. Keira scuttled off to her room, leaving Natalie to disrobe and take her room-mate’s place in the shower. She washed her hair first, always cleaning herself from head to toe in order. A few flashes of memory came to her; showering with her cousin at the swimming club, rinsing the goo of a punitive gunging from their hair and suits. How many others had stood there, water washing away the deed while the warm steam imprinted the memory? Natalie shook her head, sending water spraying from her dark, sodden locks. She had avoided thinking about it for a while, until this little incident brought it all flooding back. Perhaps flooding was not the best term to use. Still, as excruciating as it had been, it must have been a thousand times worse for poor Keira. She wouldn’t rub it in, but Natalie wondered how Keira would ever live it down. How could she sit across at breakfast, yawn and stretch, without worrying if her exposing pose reminding her room-mate of the time she found Keira tied up in the bathroom?
Well, she’d have to learn to live with it, thought Natalie. Just like she had to live with the ghost of a smirk appearing every time she saw her cousin. They didn’t talk about it, much, but Scarlett had been dropping hints that she’d like Natalie to come swimsuit shopping with her soon. Was she hoping Nat would join the club full time? Fat chance. The last thing she wanted to do was risk another gunging. Natalie shook her wet head and tried to dispel the thoughts. A little singing in the shower, she thought, might improve her mood.
“That’s what you get when you let your heart win, whoooaaa–ahhh!”
Something hit her head and shoulders with a damp squelch. Natalie’s shriek sounded piercing in the tiny bathroom. She threw her hands to her head, feeling squishy dollops of gunk curdling between its dark strands. As she drew her fingers back in disgust the clingy scents of tomato and garlic and butter rushed up her nostrils.
“Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain,” cackled a voice. Natalie did the opposite: before she even thought about it, her sticky hands pried back the curtain and with one non-gooed eye she glared out into the light. Standing there in just her plain white underwear was Keira, smirking as she held on to a hefty black pot with one hand.
“What the hell?!” demanded Natalie. Then reality dawned; she had just exposed herself, naked and wet, not to mention slimed, to a room-mate she barely knew. Natalie grasped for the curtain again but lost it in the greasy combination of butter and sause, giving Keira time to bring out her other arm.
SPLAT. It really sounded like that as the soft, cool stuff hit her face and the noise hit the tiles. Natalie gasped out a puff of air and reached for her eyes, one hand hovering between her legs as she tried to maintain a shred of modesty. Her attempt to wipe the fluffy cream simply slid stinking sauce around her face and hair. Unable to see where to go, afraid of what was coming next, she stood still, stupefied and defeated.
“Oh my god,” was all she could say.
“Remnants of last night’s dinner,” explained Keira’s voice. “Spaghetti and sauce and some gateaux. Somebody forgot to put it in the fridge so it went a bit funny overnight. Not quite as funny as you look right now, though.”
“How… Why…” stammered, Natalie. Though she couldn’t see through the cake and sauce and jumble of noodles now sliding off her head, she kept her eyes closed against the world that must surely be all staring and laughing at her. Even if, right now, that world only consisted of one quiet room-mate. A hand grabbed hers, tugged her gently into the shower’s hot flow again.
“Here,” said Keira. “I’ll let you get washed. And don’t forget this…” she added. Natalie felt a short, smooth cylinder being pressed into her palm. It had some sort of nodule on one end and, when her exploring finger nudged it, the whole thing shivered.
“Have fun,” Keira said, sounding endlessly amused. “And tell your ‘friend’ that ‘he’ doesn’t need to worry about keeping any secrets from me.”
Natalie felt the curtain swish back over her, heard the door click shut. She was alone now, soaked and slimed; naked and humiliated. She cringed against the weight of slop on her head and face, almost wishing she could be sucked into it and consumed, rather than have to eventually go back out there and face a young woman who had just seen her naked. Naked, not only in body, but in mind. How had Keira figured it out? Was Natalie’s discomfort and conflicting feelings about this sort of thing so obvious? Natalie shoved her face under the shower, held her hands there as if to hide as much as to wipe away the cream and sauce. And as she stood there, almost miserable from shame at her exposure, she could not ignore the fluttering in her gut, the electricity running through her thighs, and the deep, involuntary curl of her toes. She slicked her hair back, feeling the goo gum up between her fingers. As she struck that casually sexy pose she had seen come so easily to Keira, Natalie could not help but feel a faint smile escape her. For perhaps the first time, she felt kind of sexy herself.
Natalie had half a mind to toss Keira’s little implement in the bin and read the girl the riot act about personal space. But as she stood there, overcome with sensation, she realised one simple point: where would the fun be in that?
* * *
Natalie felt light-headed as she stepped into her bedroom. She had not thought to bring clothes with her to the bathroom so had made a ghostly flight across the hall in a towel, hoping to avoid any contact with Keira. The last thing she needed was to be asked if she ‘enjoyed her shower’. No matter what answer she gave, her inevitable flush would give it away. Fortunately it seemed Keira was hiding out elsewhere in the flat, so Natalie was able to enter her sanctuary and looked forward to flopping down on her bed.
Except, the bed was occupied. For a split second she thought it was Keira, and that would have been a little too much on this wild night. Clutching her chest, Natalie found that the skinny figure she thought she had spied out of the corner of her eye was simply a set of clothes lain out on her duvet. Well, a set was perhaps a bit generous, and ‘clothes’ implied somewhat more coverage than this skimpy black bandeau and bikini briefs offered. Natalie did not think herself a bikini sort of girl; this was her first and only such outfit, a half-rebellious, half-conceding to peer-pressure purchase that she had got right before going on holiday after finishing high school. The plan was to lure the boys in and make her parents well aware that their daughter was growing up and about to fly the nest, but she had felt so self-conscious once she had it on she spent most of her time hiding in the water and never wore it again. Her younger brother’s running commentary on how many Spanish boys had given her a double-take did not help much either. Now somebody had dug them out of the bottom of her drawers and set them out on her bed, and that somebody had left a little card peeking from the waistband of her bikini bottoms. That somebody was surely Keira, but the last thing Natalie wanted to do was be face-to-face with her room-mate. She picked up the card and read it, searching for a clue.
The Hellfire Club
1776 University Avenue
Fridays 6pm.
Guests may enter only on surrender of this card.
Well, for the first time since starting uni, Natalie had something to do on Friday night.
HereImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. are the next two instalments of this spell-if-you-can game show. Episode 6 perhaps focuses more on the wet than the messy, but the standard is still very high.
ThanksImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. to MCPridz. This clips features Sara Cox being dunked repeatedly in a water tank. Unfortunately, it also features No Direction.
One Image may be NSFW. Clik here to view.of the better scenes from this show I’ve come across, and not one that I’ve seen before. Hopefully the “1″ means there’ll be more from the uploader.
AImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. woman is covered in grey ‘schleim’ on German Nickelodeon, followed by a weak caking on another German show. The laughter you can hear in the middle is from Dr Gunge (MD or PhD, I wonder?).
Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence.
In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
Sarah got straight into the shower upon our return to the apartment. Even through the wall of the en-suite bathroom, I could hear her sobbing to herself as she scrubbed. Trying to wash away both the physical remains of the mess and the intense feeling of violation at the way she had been treated so cruelly for comedic purposes.
For a long time afterwards, sat there upon the side of the bed wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she was inconsolable. Only the promise of a ‘no expense spared’ trip to a beautician in the nearby town, in order to restore her damaged hair (and some measure of her damaged pride perhaps), finally got her to calm down and listen to what I had to say.
I spoke at length of Hedonistic Utilitarianism, of Epicurus and John Stuart Mill. I tried to reason that, if we accept that pleasure is the only intrinsic good, then an act which seeks to maximize pleasure for the greater amount of people, albeit at the expensive of a minority, is not only morally justifiable but is also generally desirable.
Sarah, bless her, cocked her pretty head to one side and listened intently to me. When I had finished, her summation of my philosophical position was thus:
“That’s just being silly,” she replied. She was, of course, right.
I modified my language. I conceded that the clowns were indeed ‘mean and nasty’ and I could absolutely understand that she felt unhappy, as she had every right to. But I maintained the position that many people, myself included, had found her clown show ‘very funny’ despite all this and that maybe she should stop being ‘such a cry baby’ about it.
We agreed to disagree. We weren’t going to fall out over it. For one thing, we loved each other dearly and for another, I come from a very wealthy family and Sarah does not. Life’s little luxuries such as the skills of an expensive beautician whenever required have become something which Sarah also values too much to lose.
So, the following day, with her hair restored to it’s former glory and some new clothes, shoes and accessories purchased, Sarah was feeling much better. Until meal time, that is.
We were all planning on going to the cabaret that evening after we had eaten. Sarah had chosen a very tight red dress that stuck to her like a wet postage stamp. She was truly ‘a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.” – as Raymond Chandler had once succinctly painted a picture with his pen.
What might have been an elegant understatement of an outfit at the Opera or the last night of the Proms, was a bit over the top for a communal dining hall at a British holiday camp. All eyes were upon her as she crossed the room. I think it was her intention to turn some heads as an antidote to her degradation the previous day. She knew that many of the people present would have been witness to her humiliating circus performance. Sarah was showing everyone that she had bounced back.
But no sooner were we all seated at our table, than there was a commotion at the double swing doors leading into the dining hall. Slap and Stick, the chaotic clown act, burst into the room. They were in their working outfits and fully in character. Stick blew a party horn into the face of a pretty young waitress, causing her to drop the tray she was carrying with a loud bang and clatter, to which many people cheered in a rowdy fashion. People appreciated the opportunity to see some entertainment occurring not just outside of the circus arena but also during meal time. It felt innovative, postmodern and transgressive of the norm. Everyone seemed delighted.
Everyone, that is, except Sarah. She was clearly afraid. Her body language spoke of a desire to shrink into oblivion. Hoping against hope that the clowns would not notice her. This strategy was doomed to failure. After the clowns themselves, Sarah remained the most conspicuous presence in the room due to her perfect blonde hair and the tight red dress hugging her every delectable curve. Her wide-eyed, trembling countenance did nothing to diminish this. If anything, it seemed to act as a homing beacon for the slapstick duo.
“Hey! Over here,” shouted Slap. “It’s Big Top!”
The assembled crowd cheered as the clowns bumbled their way over to our table. Even those who hadn’t witnessed the circus show had now heard about it. Within the space of a day, the very public humiliation of an attractive woman had acquired a legendary status amongst the holiday makers and the prospect that there might be a repeat performance was thrilling.
“Ooo! Look at her dress!” remarked Stick. “The last time I saw that much fat squeezed into something so tight, I was looking at a sausage!”
That got a big laugh. Like any good family entertainment, the joke worked on several levels for several age groups. The sheer cheekiness of calling a grown up lady ‘fat’ was a delight for the children. Particularly given the absolutely mortified look it had bought to her pretty face. Also, the comparison of the material of Sarah’s tight dress to the stretched skin of a sausage was an amusing visual image. Lastly, the line sounded suspiciously like a dick joke.
Slap picked up a fork from the table, twirled it in his fingers and mused aloud.
“Now then. What do we do with a sausage?”
‘Prick with a fork?’ suggested Stick.
“What did you just call me?” enquired Slap angrily, ostentatious slamming the utensil back down on the table. A big laugh from the diners at their risqué verbal banter.
“Sorry, you were saying what do we do with a sausage, weren’t you?” said Stick.
“That’s right, what do we do with a sausage?”
“I know – serve it with mashed potatoes!” suggested Stick gleefully.
“STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!” shouted Sarah, finally finding the strength to show some defiance. “I know exactly what you’re up to. I’m not going to sit here and be insulted and I’m certainly not going to sit here while you throw mashed potato at me!”
Sarah leaned forward slightly, gripping the edges of her seat and thrust her hip backwards, ready to push her chair out and rise from the table in one decisive motion.
But her chair did not budge. Her two nephews, seated either side of her, had each wedged one foot behind her chair legs and had braced their full weight to prevent both chair and auntie moving backwards.
With growing panic, Sarah pushed at the table edge for greater resistance but to no avail. She was stuck at the table. Wedged in by her naughty nephews. Whilst this was going on, there was a real excited buzz being generated amongst the diners, as a kitchen assistant pushed a trolley up to the table. Upon the trolley was a plastic bucket, two large jugs and a metal bowl.
“LET ME GO THIS INSTANT!” demanded Sarah.
“She wants us to let her go, boys and girls! Shall we pay any attention at all to what the Silly Sausage says?”
The ‘NO!!!!’ was loud and unanimous.
“Did you hear that, Big Top?” asked Slap, rhetorically. “The boys and girls don’t think you should be allowed to leave the table until you’ve had all your mashed potatoes!”
Stick raised the bucket up over Sarah’s frantic head.
“DON’T YOU DARE! – I’ve just had my hair done!” said Sarah, halfway between a threatening growl and a petulant whine, as she cringed – dipping her head and tried to bury in her own shoulders – the only evasive action she felt was left open to her as she gripped the edges of her chair with both hands. Why she chose not raise her hands and in an attempt to shield her hair was anybody’s guess but we were all grateful that she didn’t think to do this, as it would have made her head a less than perfect target.
“Dare I?” enquired Stick of the crowd. We all responded in no uncertain terms that he should, indeed, dare.
The clown paused with poised bucket for quite some time as he allowed everything to become quiet. He paused for so long that Sarah actually looked up quizzically to see what was going on and why the deluge hadn’t begun. Wrong move.
She got a face full of mash. It could hardly be called mash. More like potato gunge. It was a mixture of powdered packet potato produced in freeze dried, rehydratable flakes. Plenty of water had been used to get it to a runny, sloppy consistency. You couldn’t have stood your bangers up in it, that was for damn sure.
Sarah squealed in shock, meaning that she got a good spluttering mouthful of the foul stuff. Her hair was instantly destroyed yet again. One of her false eyelashes got knocked off and slid away like a dead spider in a drainpipe. The liquid potato steadily covered her shoulders and made its way down the sides of her upper arms and her bosom in a lumpy, translucent film. A little of it trickled down her back too.
This time, it was harder for the mess to penetrate inside her dress – given how tight it was. But nature finds a way. As some of the mess pooled in her cleavage, it eventually sank between her twin orbs, emitting little air bubbles as it did so. Reminiscent of the volcanic activity in a gaseous mud dome.
Sarah was now reduced to whimpering noises as she endured the flow of desiccated vegetable effluent. The little shudders and twitches that traversed her body seemed to indicate that whoever had mixed this vile slop in preparation for her ordeal had not thought it necessary to bother with warm water.
The crowd, as ever, were loving it. All were thrilled to note that Slap had now fetched from the trolley two large plastic measuring jugs, both containing a thick brown substance. Sarah, of course, could not see this as he approached her from behind. It wasn’t difficult for her to get the gist that the clowns hadn’t quite finished with her.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands on a pair of massive jugs!” exclaimed Stick.
“I never touched her!” countered Slap. “Oh, you mean these?” These guys were killing everybody with their decidedly unsophisticated schtick.
“Do you like gravy?” enquired Stick, in a casual manner, as if he was innocently serving dinner.
“NO!” snapped Sarah. “I HATE gravy and I HATE being treated like this!” as she looked up and stared daggers through her rapidly blinking but beautiful eyes, black dribbles of mascara describing crazy pathways amongst the wet granules of starch.
“Oooo! What a shame!” replied Stick. “Well, no one was asking the Sausage. Do YOU like gravy, Boys and Girls?” enquired Stick of the whole room.
Apparently, the Boys and Girls (and everyone else for that matter) were all big fans of gravy and left the clowns in no doubt of their feelings on this issue. Sarah was saying something like – “Please don’t, please please don’t!” but it was impossible to hear her exact words over the noise. And, let’s face it, whatever protest she came up with was entirely irrelevant at this point. This was mob rule.
Without further ceremony, Slap let the Sausage have the Gravy. Both jugs at once, straight on top of her head. Like yesterday’s treacle on top of custard, it was the slapstick antidote to the steady pouring that had proceeded. In terms of Taoist philosophy, the rapid dousing of runny gravy was the complimentary Yang to the Yin of the slow potato gunging.
Not sure where the peas fit into that analogy, but they came next. Not mushy peas. Just a bowl full of the garden variety sprinkled liberally over Sarah as she sat there dejectedly squirming in her seat with a face like messy thunder. The mixture of mess that coated her had just enough adhesiveness, in places, that a fair proportion of the peas were able to affix themselves to her for long enough to create a decorative ‘feather on tar’ effect – before eventually losing purchase and sliding inexorably to the floor, where quite a puddle was now forming.
Slap and Stick applied their green garnish in silence, affecting the mannerisms of fussy cooks as they did so. Sarah remained silent too, as if she sought a kind of noble dignity in quiet, passive resistance. All it did was strengthen the suspicions in many minds gathered there that Sarah was a ‘plant’. A legitimate part of a clowning trio with superb acting ability. A fully consenting, willing stooge. This only increased everyone’s desire to see her pushed to her limits and beyond.
Eventually, the Clowns stood back to admire their handiwork. Sarah, bless her, delivered the following line, her voice dripping with petulance, as perfectly as if she had been scripted to do so.
“HAVE YOU QUITE FINISHED!?”
Slap and Stick looked at each other like they couldn’t believe how perfect she was. They had discovered comedy gold in Sarah’s naturalistic, born stooge reactions – and they were going to mine her for all she was worth.
And of course they hadn’t finished. There had been another one of those past sell-by date pies hidden away on the trolley and Stick now weighed it up and down in his hand. He had any number of verbal punchlines at the ready to accompany a pie in the face – but none were necessary – just a slow, knowing look towards the crowd and then back at Sarah as if to say “Does this answer your question?”
SMUSH!
The Clown let the girl have it. To rapturous applause. Curdled cream, stale pastry and smelly fruit puree joined forces with peas, gravy and mash to form a demeaning, unappetising mask of shame. Stick kept his hand in place and rubbed it around and around for a few moments, just as Slap had advised in yesterday’s circus masterclass, before stepping back and allowing the foil tin to clatter to the floor.
Sarah performed the classic slow burn of dual handed eye wipe, ostentatious hand flick towards the floor, a brief snort of flared nostrils and a full body shudder of disgust. It was as if she’d been robotically programmed this way – with the stooge dial turned up to eleven.
Her nephews either side of her were now so creased with laughter that they could no longer secure her chair with their feet. Sarah stood up. As she did so, the large amount of slop that had pooled in her lap cascaded to the floor with a loud wet slap. She turned around, carefully removed the chair from her path, and stormed out.
Due to the size of the room, the tightness of her dress, the height of her heels and all the mess dripping off her that she was being careful not to slip in – it was the most awkward, protracted and therefore most comical ‘storming out’ that I have ever witnessed.
We never did make it to the cabaret. I assured Sarah that she had provided enough entertainment. She eventually relented with an indulgent, half smile at my refusal to see anything but the funny side of the evening’s events. We agreed to disagree and we hit the sack.
That night in bed, just as I was drifting off, Sarah sat bolt upright in a cold sweat, her thin, sheer negligee stuck to her body with beads of perspiration.
Her wide, unregistering eyes stared blankly ahead in the darkness. Her mop of blonde hair, washed and dried to within an inch of its life, still gave off a faint yet persistent aroma of gravy powder.
She uttered one single word in a hushed, hurried tone as if she were in mortal danger.
“Clowns!”
And then promptly flopped backwards and resumed a deep but obviously troubled sleep.
I currently have a new story in the pipeline, or the gungeline, or some kind of big pipe carrying substances more messy than tar sands. While we’re waiting on that, though, I thought it might be fun to get a little discussion going. A lot of stories focus on the outfits worn by our intrepid victim, and for some the outfit can be a primary source of enjoyment in the whole experience. I’m wondering, for those of us who have gotten themselves into a wam situation, for those who indulge in self-wam or who even have perhaps acquired the services of the likes of sploshagirl.com: what outfit did you enjoy getting messed or soaked in the most?
Although this story mentions real persons, corporations, TV shows and places, it is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity mentioned. Likewise, although these pictures feature real persons, they have been altered or created to show fictional situtations for personal enjoyment. The pictures do NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity. The events and activities depicted in either may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
This week, we find Noel in full Elizabethan period costume — a conceit explained earlier in the show as follows: Humiliated a year ago by having to play the rear half of ‘Bottom’ in the Crinkley Bottom Players’ production of the A Midsummer Night’s Dream, this year, Noel is eagerly going up for the title role in Hamlet. Everything seemed to be going to plan but for the appearance of guest Michael Sheen, who (with an accorded measure of camp) duly announces he is also just as keen on Noel’s part…
“Later”, announces Noel, “we’ve got a great Gotcha for Seb Coe at the International Helicopter Festival in Munich…” .
Ding Dong!
He tiptoes to the door in the usual fashion. “Someone’s at the door…”
It’s none other than the Vorderman-usurping TV mathematics bombshell Rachel Riley. She’s wearing a low cut dress: an elegant parody of the blouse and pencil skirt. The audience applauds and wolf-whistles.
Noel half closes his eyes with the usual simper. “Indeed. The very same!”
She clocks the Elizabethan garb. “Interesting…costume, by the way…”
“Oooh! Do you like it? Can you guess who I’m meant to be?” he enthuses.
Riley looks him up and down, sternly. “Francis Bacon?”
“Bacon?” Noel is incredulous: “I’m the BARD!”
“No, no, I was thinking of those grotesque figures in the paintings…”
The audience laughs.
Noel turns to the audience in disbelief, then back to Riley. “Can you tell which Shakespeare character I am?”
“Richard the Third?”
Noel ‘tuts’ loudly. “I’M THE DANE! —Hamlet!”
“No, I don’t see it.” She steps forward, then pauses. “Danish, you say,eh?”
Noel regains his vigour. “Yep!”
They both corpse at this point—for reasons known only to themselves.
Riley composes herself to deliver the lame, grocery related and freshly overkilled punchline: “You seem to be the one going on about Bacon”.
The audience groans.
“I do know a surgeon, though,” she continues, “who could help you with that hump.”
“What hump?” exclaims Noel, in mock bafflement, towards the audience. “Anyway,” resolves Noel, suddenly a little reverential. “Are you the maths teacher?”
“Yes.”
Noel confides in the audience. “Ooh! It’s Miss Riley from Crinkley Bottom school. I’ve got a bit of a crush on her.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry, I just said ‘my codpiece is crushing me a bit…”
“Ooh. Poor you. Are you the student?”
“Of course not…” Noel straightens up.
“Good.” Riley looks relieved. “That would certainly be a lost cause.”
The audience laughs and Edmonds slouches.
“No, it’s not for me, it’s for Blobby. He’s got his exams coming up and he’s just not doing very well with his maths. Thought you might be able to give him some one-on-one tuition”
Blobby is sitting on the sofa with a black board and an abacus, which he is violently shaking in between putting his head in his hands and crying theatrically. His eyes are even squirting small jets of water.
“You’re joking. He’s un-teachable!” Riley shakes her head, resolutely.
“Eh?” exclaims Blobby in his electronic multi-howl of a voice and manages to look plaintively at the audience.
The audience duly patronises him with an “Awwwwww!”
“Oh, please, Miss Riley”, begs Noel, “He’s doing his best…”
Blobby flutters his giant eyelashes.
“Oh, all right. I suppose I’ve got a duty as a teacher to do what I can.”
The audience cheers and Blobbly recklessly tosses the abacus off behind him somewhere and runs over to Riley, picks her up bodily and carries the giggling Countdown pin-up over to the sofa where he plonks her down, then sits beside her. She’s slightly ruffled but laughing hysterically.
“We’ll see how they’re getting on later…” says Noel, addressing the viewers.
Ding dong!
Noel trots over to the door again. “Who could this be? I’m very busy tonight,” he mutters.
The door opens to reveal Dave Benson-Phillips. The audience applauds and cheers. Dave, twinkly eyed with mouth agape in mock wonderment, laps it all up.
As the applause fades, Noel turns to confide in the audience, looking slightly disgruntled. “It’s that man from the fairground again!”
Dave’s expression has quickly transformed to a severe scowl which is directed squarely at Noel. “Look, Mr Edmonds, you know why I’m here!”
“I’m sorry, there’s no Mr Edmonds here, I…” He attempts to close the door on him, but Dave thrusts his foot across the threshold and forces it back again
“—Don’t trifle with me, I can see through that pathetic disguise.” Dave turns up the panto villain act.
“Oh, alright,” concedes Noel, “What do you want?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me. You know exactly why I’m here!”
“Oh! The lawn mower — sorry, Blobby’s broken it. I’ll—”
“—NO! I’m looking for my Gunk Dunk and the BBC told me you’ve got it.”
“No, no. We’ve got an old ghost train ride but nothing like that…look, can you come back later? I’ve got guests in the Great House.” He tries, once again, to close the door.
“WAAIIIT A MINUTE! Don’t you know who I am?” Benson-Phillips stares Edmonds down and grasps him by his shoulders.
Noel pauses before uttering a meek “No.”
Dave turns to the audience; arms outstretched and begins to chant:
“I’m a dude in a mood,
I’m the dean of the green,
Slap-head with the sludge…”
The audience cottons on that this is some kind of ‘rap’ and starts to clap a rhythm.
“…The guy with all the gunge,
The hunk with the dunk,
I’m the brother with the smother,
Gonna move some drudge with a grudge in the sludge,
They got time for slime,
They want less natter and more splatter,
‘Cause I’m m-ad as the Hatter, I’m…I’m”
He breaks off, shaking his head.
“I’m…workin’ on it alright?!”
The audience heartily applauds his efforts thus far.
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you don’t mind…”
“—What’s that behind that curtain?” insists Dave, pointing a finger over yonder.
“What? Oh, nothing.” Shrugs Noel.
Mr Blobby, presently engaged in a cosy conference with Rachel Riley on the sofa, suddenly seems to take notice and rises from his seat shouting, in his chorus of a voice, something that sounds like Gunky Dunky! Gunky Dunky! and runs over to the large curtained area.
“NO, BLOBBY! NO!” shouts Noel — but to no avail.
Blobby proceeds to drag the curtain down from its pole, wrapping himself up in it in the process and revealing the GYOBGunk Dunk in all its glory.
“I knew it!” screams DBP as Blobby continues to roll around the floor wrestling the curtain. Rachel Riley can be heard laughing.
Noel looks embarrassed. “Oh… er… Look, it’s in the house now. It’s going to be a lot of trouble to have it moved…Sorry, no can do – off you go.”
“Right!” Dave asserts himself once again, resisting Noel’s continued efforts to evict him. ”A different strategy.” He pauses. “Perhaps…” Then taps his chin “…if I were to put some of your villagers in…jeopardy you might take notice then…”
A pair of Perspex tubes, each in different parts of the auditorium are lowered in position over the heads of two random members of the audience: a gel-haired towny guy, who seems amused and slow-claps as he regards himself on the monitors — and a pretty auburn haired girl in her mid-twenties wearing a long sleeved polkadot blouse in a sort of rockabilly style who — once she recognises herself on screen firmly clasps a hand over her mouth as her companions either side clap and laugh nervously.
“No! No! You wouldn’t!” cringes Noel in mock terror.
“Oh yes I would! Ha-Ha! — So you do have a soft spot for this lot after all!”
“No, I’ve just had the auditorium carpet cleaned – cost a fortune. Not bothered about the villagers, they’re expendable.”
“So you don’t mind if I do this?” Dave yanks a lever attached to a nearby wall.
The familiar klaxon sounds, Noel scarpers like a headless chicken to the other side of the stage — and a modest splatter of slime drops from above onto Dave’s glossy head scattering across the floor nearby. Dave expresses a modicum of camped-up rage.
The audience applause subsides and we see a quick shot of the village boy and girl’s respective faces reacting with relief to the news of their apparent reprieve.
“You mean this lever?” suggests, Noel. He pulls it, the klaxon sounds once again but this time gunge gushes down simultaneously onto the chosen audience members (and a couple of individuals in the immediate vicinity), showering each of them with a more than generous torrent of green nastrosol. The female victim and her close neighbours issue a chorus of yelps and squeals.
“We’ll see, Edmonds –WE’LL SEE!” Threatens, DBP as he carefully tries to walk over the slippery stage back to the door to make his exit. “You win—this time!”
Noel laughs in that bronchial DJ way as he goes over to help him. “I don’t think they thought this through…”
The door closes.
“Phew! That got rid of him…” resolves Noel
There is a commotion in the audience chamber. The girl, soaked, hair flattened and hanging with slime — though doing her best to be a sport — is clearly quite shocked and annoyed as she wipes her eyes and is also not quite sure where to put her messy hands, holding them aloft, upturned. The village boy, who is in just as bad a state, appears slightly less bothered as his surrounding mates rub it all over him and flick it at each other.
“QUIET!” shouts Edmonds over the row. “We’ve got a show to do. Tut. IT’S JUST A BIT OF GUNGE! Honestly. Simmer down.”
AImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. reporter is repeatedly dunked in aid of a local hospital. In a stroke of good luck she breaks the goggles she is supposed to wear.
ThanksImage may be NSFW. Clik here to view. to A Person for posting this find. In case you had any problems with the video on the official website (like I did), here it is on YouTube.
La Tomatina Festival 2014 anyone? Crazy food fight gathering in Valencia but must do event! Tweet me 4 info >> http://t.co/N04NeVESZc— Paul Miller (@BlackorangeUK) September 04, 2013
Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence.
In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
The following day, we were at the beach. It was a ‘private’ beach – still officially part of the resort but it was a fair distance from the main complex.
Sarah was looking stunning in a pink bikini and matching strappy sandals with built up heels. The bikini was relatively full cut and would be considered modest by the standards of those young ladies who choose to wear not much more than dental floss whilst sunning themselves. But Sarah has the kind of figure that seems to transform any material into a second skin, stretched to breaking point and hinting with breathless urgency at the soft flesh within, in a way that has far more allure than mere exposure.
She had dozed off. She looked serene, her only movements being the slow rise and fall of her magnificent chest. This must have meant that she felt relatively safe and secure. A good half mile away from both the circus tent and the dining hall. She was also catching up on some well needed sleep.
Her night had indeed been a troubled one. In the morning, she had recounted her disturbing nightmares to me. Her vivid dreams involved being kidnapped by a gang of clowns, being sold into clown slavery, having to perform ludicrously punishing slapstick shows 3 times a day, 7 days a week in a traveling circus and, most bizarrely, having to attend ‘Clown College’ where she would get spanked with a massively over-sized shoe if her academic performance fell below the expected standard.
I had agreed with her that this sounded harrowing. I then put it to her that it wasn’t real and that it was also, in point of fact, hilarious.
She just gave me one of her goofy smiles.
Anyway. There we were at the beach. I noted the approach of a motorised vehicle across the sand. It was somewhere between a full-on dune buggy and a souped-up golf kart. As it drew nearer, it became apparent that the occupants of said vehicle were Messrs. Slap and Stick. Yes, pun intended – not only the abbreviated form of the plural ‘Misters’, but these guys were also, quite literally, ‘Messers’.
An excited buzz amongst the beach-goers heralded their arrival. But the clowns were quick to quell any noisy exuberance. Stick made the universal sign for silence – an upright finger pressed to his lips. Then he pointed at Sarah’s prone form and made the universal sign for sleep – two palms pressed together, tilted to the side, head rested upon them with eyes closed.
Everybody there got the message and pretty much held their breath in anticipation.
Slap picked up a stack of white cards and displayed the first one for everyone to see. He twisted his waist slowly and gracefully so that as many people as possible got a view of the writing thereupon in thick black marker pen:
QUIET!
He let the first card waft noiselessly to the sand. From Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues to Richard Curtis with Love Actually, no one was unfamiliar with this trope and we all silently and eagerly awaited the unfolding drama.
THESE ARE CALLED IDIOT CARDS
FOR WHEN YOU DON’T WANT TO DISTURB AN IDIOT
FALLING ASLEEP IN THE SUN IS DANGEROUS
SHE MIGHT GET SUNBURN
SO LET’S GIVE HER PLENTY OF LOTION
The suppressed giggling and vigorous nodding made the next card redundant.
SHALL WE?
The nodding intensified and was accompanied by many a ‘thumbs aloft’ sign.
OH, ALRIGHT THEN
IF YOU INSIST
The last two cards being wholly unnecessary but funny nonetheless. It would not have taken a seasoned mentalist to have predicted the response of the crowd to the extent that their pre-prepared cards would be so apposite.
From a picnic box on the front of their buggy, Slap and Stick each took a 5 litre plastic catering tub, walked silently over to Sarah’s prone figure and peeled back the plastic lids in unison.
Everyone knew this was not suntan lotion – apart from the fact that you’d have to take out a second mortgage to afford such a product in those amounts, we could all smell the pungent, sickly sweet aroma of vanilla ice cream. These tubs must have been allowed to ‘sun ripen’ until their contents were entirely liquid.
And this sticky liquid had Sarah’s name on it. Almost literally in this case. Most likely with the same marker pen as used for the idiot cards, the lid of one plastic tub bore the legend ‘BIG’ and the other said ‘TOP’ – the clowns nickname for Sarah. Slap and Stick briefly held up the lids for people to see, getting another suppressed giggle from the assembled crowd, before discarding them on the sand just like the cue cards.
At this point, Sarah stirred. Everyone stayed as quiet as possible. Without any conscious awareness of her surroundings, she lazily turned onto her front. Something about her gave me the visual image of a spit roasted chicken. Was it her slow rotation towards the source of heat? Was it that she did, indeed, look good enough to eat? I think it was perhaps that she appeared about as vulnerable as was humanly possible right now. An object prepared, presented and ready for public consumption and enjoyment.
Wasting no further time, Slap let her have it. Approximately two and a half litres of processed milk, vegetable solids and sugar water impacted on my poor fiancee’s beautiful tanned back. With a quick swipe of the container, the remaining slop quickly obliterated both her blonde mane and the seat of her bikini briefs.
Sarah shrieked in a manner that could have shattered windows if we had been closer to the main complex. As it was, I think some passing ships were alerted. Whilst the ice cream was melted, I suspected that the storage box on the Clown-Mobile was at least refrigerated. The level of shock in Sarah’s reaction indicated not just a messy awakening but a cold one.
In the instant that her defensive reflexes went into overdrive, Stick was ready with another 5 litres of the stuff. As she flipped around, he let her have half of it full in the face, followed by a rapid sweeping moment which dumped the rest across her boobs, belly and ‘front bottom’.
There had been no need to target her long shapely legs. By the time she had struggled to her feet, the stuff was running in multiple rivulets and already invading the space between her toes, turning the sand beneath her to sticky clumps.
As soon as she registered the presence of the clowns there was a brief flash of fear in her eyes. A split second choice between fight or flight. Rage quickly overtook fear and she chose to fight. This came in the form of a comical rant rather than actual fisticuffs.
“LOOK AT THE STATE OF ME! WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU DONE?!?” She coughed and spluttered in boiling hot anger and lack of comprehension at how anyone could be so horribly mean and spiteful.
“It wasn’t us. I think I saw a giant seagull flying above you. Could have been him!” Suggested Slap.
Moronically, Sarah actually glanced up into the sky, presumably in order to rule out this theory. Everyone laughed heartily at her gullibility and she fumed at being so easily duped.
“OOOOOOOO!!!!!! GET OUT OF HERE! LEAVE ME ALONE! I’LL….I’LL TELL…”
“Your Mommy?” mocked Stick.
“THE POLICE! I’LL TELL THE POLICE!!!” screamed Sarah in frustration. “THIS IS HARASSMENT! STOP BOTHERING ME!!!”
“Alright. We know when we’re not wanted. Come on, Stick.” The clown affected an air of wounded pride.
“Let’s go,” agreed Stick. “You’ve seen one Bimbo who’s had a little too much ice cream for her own good, you’ve seen them all.”
With that, they clambered back aboard their all-terrain Clown Carriage. Slap gunned the engine and did a very deliberate wheel spin, slicing into the sand and sending a great arc of the stuff to create an airborne assault on Sarah with the force of a hurricane in the Gobi Desert.
Despite the nearby spectators. Sarah, Like a reverse Tony Curtis, was the sole recipient of this granular onslaught.
She coughed and spluttered and flailed around like the bullied wimp in the Charles Atlas advertisements, engulfed in her own personal temporary sandstorm.
If you’ve ever dropped a melting ice cream cone on a sandy beach, you’ll no doubt be able to visualise just how readily and persistently that sand clung to every nook and cranny that Sarah’s semi-nudity made available. The stuff was like flies on shit, if you’ll pardon my vernacular.
As the Clown-Mobile rapidly departed, Sarah glared after her fleeing assailants and then she did something I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person do outside of a cartoon.
She actually shook her fist. It was such an ineffectual, yet clearly heartfelt, gesture. It made her look ridiculously stupid.
Imagine Don Quixote, tilting at windmills across the expansive Spanish plains of La Mancha. Now imagine him in a hot pink bikini, covered in melted ice cream and a layer of fine sand, his ample breasts wobbling hypnotically to and fro in rhythmic collaboration with his raised, clenched fist. That’s about halfway to how idiotic she looked right then.
“I HATE CLOWNS!!!” she screamed.
The jubilant laughter all around her was conclusive proof that her opinion was not shared. She was in a minority of one, as per usual. People continued to take pictures and video with their phones and other devices. Youngsters squabbled over the fallen cue cards as souvenirs of yet another holiday highlight. Sarah seethed, pouted and seethed some more. She lacked even the presence of mind to go and wash off in the sea and no one was about to suggest that course of action to her. We were enjoying the spectacle of her ruined appearance far too much.
It was time once more for the long walk of shame back to the apartments and the sometimes rough, sometimes delicate, sometimes intricate and always intimate, process of getting my poor, forlorn fiancee clean and presentable. I predicted tears before bedtime and I fully expected the spectre of mocking clowns would haunt Sarah’s dreams again that night.
Although this story mentions real persons, corporations, TV shows and places, it is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity mentioned. Likewise, although these pictures feature real persons, they have been altered or created to show fictional situtations for personal enjoyment. The pictures do NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity. The events and activities depicted in either may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
Comic genius John Junkin ambled up to a young lady in the front row of the audience.
“Hello, there, Jill.” He gestured with his sponge covered silver microphone.
Jill went pink and placed her head towards the palms of her hands, before quickly placing them back on her lap. “Hello,” she said, nervously, after a pause, in really quite a well-appointed voice.
“Any idea why you’re here today?” he asked, offering her the microphone.
She placed an upturned hand, bashfully, onto one cheek, almost over her mouth. “We got the afternoon off to come and watch the programme”.
“Ahh! That’s nice…Did your boss give you the afternoon off?”
“Yes,” she started to giggle a little.
“That’s Mr Taylor, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to give him a wave if he’s watching? Thank him?”
Jill waved, nicely, at the camera.
“And what job do you do there?” Junkin inquired.
“Well,” she explained, “I work for a firm called Whinnet Publicity who do public relations and press for various companies in industry and some in television and film and I’m one of the office supervisors who look after the girls in the typing pool.”
“Public Relations? I’d better behave myself or I’ll get a bad rap from you lot!” He smiled and a murmur of laughter rippled across the all-female audience. “And you’ve brought along some of your rather lovely colleagues from work here, haven’t you?”
We were offered a wider shot to encompass more of the audience and particularly, Jill’s six work colleagues with their styled hair, eye make-up and nice legs.
“Hello, ladies!”
All of them smiled and uttered a chorus of ‘Hellos’, one or two giggling nervously at the same time.
“You’re all typists working for Jill, are you? — What are your names?”
The microphone was placed near each of their mouths in turn:
“Samantha…”
“Eleanor…”
“Joanne…”
“Hedi…”
“Heidi?” Junkin queried.
“Hedi,” she corrected, politely.
“Hedi? Well, well. That’s a lovely and quite unusual, name,” he observed and quipped: “Heady stuff!”
There was a groan.
“Come on! It’s live telly, what do you expect?”
The remaining girls coyly introduced themselves:
“Katy…”
“Victoria—Vicky…”
“Very good.” he concluded. “Now, Hedi, perhaps you might be able to explain to Jill the real reason why she’s here. Your wicked plan!”
The audience laughed. Jill looked bemused, her eyes widened.
Hedi explained into the microphone: “Well, at our office party last Christmas we were all talking about things we’d like to do — our ambitions — things like that and Jill…” she paused, looking abashed, hardly able to contain her mirthful embarrassment, “…Jill really wanted to feel what it was like to have a custard pie in the face from a clown.”
Jill placed both her hands over her mouth in utter shock and the audience laughed and clapped, now quite suspecting what was going to happen next.
“Jill, would you like to come down here, please? “ He held out a hand with which to escort her to the front and gestured to the others. “And if the rest of you could please join us as well…”
The audience applauded as Jill took a seat in a lofty chair in the middle of the stage and the other ladies lined up a few feet away. We could see better , under the bright lights, quite how good looking Jill was on the shimmering colour video as she sat patiently, if nervously, awaiting her potentially comic fate.
“Is this really what you want to do?” asked Junkin in disbelief.
Jill laughed, but the closed her mouth tightly and nodded, grinning and revealing lovely dimples on her cheeks.
A hostess came from off-stage with a large bib-style napkin which she placed carefully under Jill’s chin and tied loosely around her neck.
“That should make sure you don’t get any custard on that lovely blouse of yours.”
“Thank you.” She said.
“Don’t mention it,” said Junkin giving the audience a look of comic disbelief tinged with infinite uncertainty, to the accompaniment of various titters.
The group of exceedingly pretty typists looked on, quite pleased with themselves, grinning somewhat smugly at their supervisor and the somewhat immanent custard pie joke .
“Well, all we really need now is a clown. So, fresh from his sell out summer season in Blackpool, would you please give a generous round of applause to…Mr Charlie Cairoli”
The audience applauded with zeal, but no legendary clown emerged.
“Oh. Sorry about that. I’ll try again. WILL YOU PLEASE WELCOME, MR CHARLIE CAIROLI…”
There was more hearty applause, but still no Cairoli.
“Oh.”
Nervous laughter from the audience ensued.
Suddenly, Clive Dunn emerged from offstage wearing a janitor’s uniform, cloth cap and a broom. “Mr Junkin, Sir.”
“—Not you again. What do you want this time?”
“Mr Junkin, Sir, we can’t be having all this mess in here every week. It took gawd knows how long to clean up all that treacle from them pancakes last week. I’m afraid I have it from on ‘igh that it’s just not on.”
“This is ridiculous!” protested Junkin. “It’s this lady’s dream come true to be given a pie in the face by a clown and you’re ruining the whole item. “ he seethed, losing patience in his characteristically highly strung manner.
“Orders is orders,” asserted Dunn’s character. The audience emitted some boos and hisses.
“Anything’s supposed to go on this show. How are we going to do this if we can’t make any mess? queried Junkin.
Meanwhile, Jill laughed nervously.
“Well”, said Dunn, “There’s nothing to say you can’t make a mess in a contained area – that’s according to section 2 of the rules and regulations”.
“Er, OK.” said Junkin, limply.
Dunn left the stage, cursorily sweeping up here and there as the audience applauded his exit.
“Mr Clive Dunn, ladies”. There was further applause as Dunn peeped around the corner and winked.
“Well, I’m very sorry, Jill, we’ve got no clown for you and no pie in the face.”
“That’s all right”, said Jill, almost disappointed.
“Well, I suppose you can just sit there now and enjoy the rest of the show”, he said and walked over to the typists. Sorry girls, that you haven’t had the chance to get your own back on your boss, there. But if you’d like to follow me over here, we’ve got a special treat for you.”
The office girls looked somewhat nonplussed, presently, as they trooped over to a curtained booth.
“Now, I expect you’ve all got sweet teeth – you all like desserts, don’t you? But I expect you worry about your figures don’t you.” Junkin pulled the heavy curtain aside to reveal a large container-like booth with a waist high glazed door, which he opened. Over the opening at the front read the legend Typist’s Trifle. “If you’d like to step in…” he said.
All preened and pretty and smartly dressed from their morning’s work, they proceeded somewhat warily inside, Joanne’s knee high boots clunked onto the metal floor within, Vicky and Samantha momentarily turned back to the host for assurance as if to say Really? Do we have to? It was a bit of a squeeze once they’d all clunked and shuffled in, fussing over their soft hairstyles as they brushed closely against one another.
Junkin made an announcement to the audience “May I introduce to you…the ladies of the Whinnet company canteen…”
Three middle aged ladies in yellow catering uniforms marched up onto the stage from behind the scenes. Junkin briefly asked for each of their names as they passed him:
“Janet”,
”Doris”,
“Betty”.
And the hostess ushered them up to the booth containing the entire typing pool whereupon reaching it they steadily climbed some steps up to a gantry over the booth which we could now see clearly was furnished with many plastic buckets and pails, variously labelled with foodstuffs.
“Now, I don’t expect the girls had any dessert in the canteen today, did they? Bit excited about being on the telly this afternoon, I expect. Looks like there’s lots left.” Junkin turned to the audience. “Shall we let them have it?”
There was a resounding affirmative, of course, from the audience and, to a chorus of squeals and protests from the lovely typists some buckets full of custard were dispatched right over them, flattening most individuals’ hair in a single colossal slop which also painted their smartly attired bodies in streaks of opaque yellow. Stocking clad legs stomped and stamped ineffectually in a variety of heels in the huddle.
Jill could be seen, still sitting on her seat, mouth agape at this twist of fate. Both relieved and shocked, she placed a hand over her mouth.
“We’ll come back later in the programme to see how that’s…progressing.”
Following another item, we were lead into the advert break by the gorgeous bevvy of office girls being deluged with further volumes of custard plus large quantities of fruit juice, jelly and rather a lot of melted ice cream, all accompanied by quite understandable hysteria from the ladies which ranged from moaning laments to uncontrollable laughter and screams. Needless to say, upon our return after the adverts we were treated to the sight of their soaked, stained, spoiled clothes clinging to their attractive frames and close ups of their wet, slimy make-up streaked faces, open mouthed, all tickled by a perverse mirth in their outrage.
Another, unrelated item followed.
By the end of the show it was becoming an increasingly chaotic melee in the booth as more custard and assorted sweet sludge were intermittently being poured dribbled, dripped, sloshed and drizzled from all over the place above. By now they were a high pitched mass of runny mascara, gunge sozzled hair all lank, draped, soaked and straightened; laddered stockings, ruined blouses and dresses, sticky, slimy heels, with faces all glossy and lubed with custard and tight wet skirts thinned, plastered and pasted to ample female buttocks as they huddled and slipped in the general yellow hue.”
All that remained was for John Junkin to kindly thank them and reward them with a round of applause, plus various prizes including clothing vouchers to be redeemed at C&A
“What truly great sports,” shouted Junkin. “All that remains is for me to thank Jill, who’s been sitting there so patiently for the whole show…Oh here’s Charie Cairoli…”
Sure enough, on rolled the great slaptick clown accompanied by a female assistant with a trolley full of real custard pies. He deployed the first, smacking it right into the centre of Jill’s face, throwing her backwards safely into the arms of the assistant who helped her to stand. As the credits rolled, he and his assistant splatted and smeared the remaining pastries all over the poor woman until she was entirely covered from head to foot in congealed yellow goo. The female assistant even turned Jill around so she could smack one right into her back-side whereupon busy hands smeared the thick throwing type custard all over Jill’s back and legs. She began to shampoo it into Jill’s hair as Cairoli concentrated on the shoes, which he removed and then filled both of them to the brim with the dessert.
We would see little more as the screen went to fade: A Southern Television Production.
This story is purely a work of fiction. The story does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence. In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
Author’s Note: So this one’s a little different again. Natalie meets up with her cousin Scarlett, last seen in my first story, and fun things start to happen. Inspired to some degree by reality, though real life isn’t nearly so elaborate. This one involves a bit more variety in mess than my previous ones so let me know if I’m stretching credulity yet. Natalie’s starting to come into her own as she develops her sense of self and explores her feelings regarding wam, and having someone close to her who appears to have at least a little interest in it certainly helps. It’s a little shorter than the last one but still about 4500 words, so let me know if that seems too much to take at once. Feedback’s always welcome, and I’d be particularly interested in hearing if people want to see more of Scarlett, or Natalie, or both, or maybe something completely different. Hope you enjoy it.
Natalie strolled along the sunny street, enjoying the relative warmth of an Indian summer. No clouds, no rain, no muddy puddles to splash her in the face; for once it was nice to be outside. She held a cell phone to her ear, letting it ring, and left a message after the beep.
“Scarlett, it’s your cousin, let’s go bowling!”
Natalie smirked at the private joke. Bowling wasn’t really her speed, or her cousin’s, but the little phrase meant something to them. What Natalie really wanted to do was just hang out and have a girl’s night, and that would be a lot more comfortable at the home of her cousin than in her own cramped flat. Especially if Keira was hanging around again.
Hanging around? That wasn’t funny, but Natalie could not keep the sly smirk from creeping across her lips. The girl must have been mortified after Natalie found her in the bathroom, but that had not stopped Keira from leaving Natalie equally red-faced. She cringed inwardly at the thought. No, no reason to mar such a lovely day with those kinds of memories. Still, Natalie could not help but remember her conflicted feelings all of yesterday afternoon as she considered the invitation extended to her. Hellfire Club? What kind of nonsense was that, anyway? Google gave her all sorts of strange things, from comic book groups of supervillains to Benjamin Franklin’s sordid secrets, but results for local establishments by that name were scant. She told herself she had never really intended to go anyway, but by the time she was trying to sleep, Natalie could not help but feel a little guilty about passing it up. Whatever ‘it’ was.
Still, there would be other Fridays. Today there was sunshine and no classes, so as the autumn evening bathed the street of a nice little suburban estate in a golden glow, Natalie strolled on to her aunt’s house. No 4×4 in the driveway; good, they were on holiday again. It’d be just her and Scarlett and some movies and munchies.
Natalie used her mother’s key to unlock the front door and crept in. In the living room a TV glowed with a paused video game: Scar was apparently playing Grand Theft Auto again. Still hadn’t finished it, Natalie noticed, and the next one was due out any day now. In fact she must have been getting desperate: Natalie tutted as she spotted an open Macbook sitting on the arm of the couch. Looking up cheats?
Natalie looked closer at the laptop, finding the web browser open on a PM from some forum. It did not offer cheats or hints to help Scarlett through the game, but a peculiar set of instructions.
DARE: 1. Whatever you are wearing when you begin to read this dare, you must keep it on until the dare is complete. 2. Play a mission or level of a video game you aren’t very good at. If you fail the mission the first time, push a cake into your face. 3. Try the mission again with your face still caked. If you fail again, pour baked beans down your knickers. 4. Try the mission one last time. If you still fail, take a cold shower in all of your clothes.
Well, thought Natalie, that was rather direct. And odd. And… intriguing.
Natalie glanced around. No sign of Scarlett, but she suspected she knew exactly where her cousin would be. Natalie carefully climbed the stairs, glad of her frequent childhood visits giving her a perfect memory of each creaky floorboard. She approached the bathroom on the top landing and flung open the door.
“Oh god!” squealed Scarlett, jumping back. She had in her hands, as direct, a large cake: a plump and gooey gateaux that she almost flopped onto the floor in fright. “What are you… how did you get in?!”
“Mum’s key,” Natalie answered. She flitted her eyes around the room in feigned bewilderment. “Um, what are you doing?”
Scarlett sucked her lip, a tell Natalie had known about since the pair were tiny and trying to avoid getting the blame for knocking something over with their boisterous play. “I’m… I’m…” she stammered, taking a step back as though she were trying to retreat. Not that there was anywhere to go in this bathroom. Her heel tapped the edge of the bathroom scales nestled under the sink, and Scarlett almost gushed with relief as an inspired explanation poured from her mouth. “I’m weighing this cake.”
“What?”
“The scales, downstairs, in the kitchen, they broke,” Scarlett continued. “Dead battery I think. I just wanted to see how much it weighs so I… brought it up here.”
“Doesn’t it tell you on the box?” asked Natalie, injecting just a touch of skepticism to her tone.
The stunned stare was worth it. Natalie could see the wheels whirring as Scarlett scoured her mind for some sort of rebuttal. “I forgot what it said,” her cousin said at last. “And I already threw it out.”
“All right,” Natalie replied with a shrug. She pretended not to notice the tin of baked beans sitting so conspicuously on the shelf between the towels and the toothpaste. “Anyway I came over to see if you were interested in a girl’s night in, but looks like you’re too busy cheating at Grand Theft Auto. Still not done with it?”
Scarlett set the cake on the toilet, making a clang as she laid it down with a trembling hand. In just a pink tank top and black leggings, she could easily be cold on a September day, except this big brick house was always roasting. Natalie coolly kept an eye on her cousin, who crouched low and fumbled with the scales, her top riding up and revealing the waistband of a pair of little pink underpants.
So, this was what she had been wearing when she opened that dare, and this would be what she was probably going to get messy in. With Scarlett’s back to her, Natalie indulged herself in a smile. She had to admit to feeling a little thrill at knowing exactly what Scarlett had planned, and to see her in an outfit she had apparently resigned to a potentially messy fate.
But that fate would not occur with Natalie hanging around all evening. Not unless she took things into her own hands.
“Ch-cheating?” asked Scarlett.
“Yeah, you’ve got your laptop right next to the Xbox. Stuck on another mission?”
Natalie noticed her cousin stiffen at the mention of the word ‘laptop’. She could just imagine the fearful thoughts dashing through her mind now: Did I close the lid? Did I at least lock the screen? Oh god, did she see what was written on it?
“I was just… looking for some tips,” Scarlett said. She had already forgotten she was trying to grab the scales and simply stared at the base of the sink, as though that slender stretch of ceramic could swallow her and send her swirling down the drain. At least then she wouldn’t have to look Natalie in the eye.
Natalie had another way to help Scarlett avoid that. “Rubbish,” she said. “You’re a dirty cheater.”
“Nuh-huh!” Scarlett retorted. She rose and rounded on her cousin, still a little shaky but recovering some measure of confidence as the pair descended into the familiar bickering of pseudosiblings.
“Yuh-huh!”
“Nuh-HUH!”
“Yuh-huh, and dirty cheaters should be punished.”
Scarlett blanched. “Wh-what?”
Well, the thought was out there now, slipping off her tongue a bit faster than she had anticipated. Though her mind raced and something within her drove her to rush forward with this plan, Natalie kept a cool exterior. She slowly turned her eyes down to the cake, sitting silently on the lid of the toilet seat, and as though pulling the strings of a puppet she slowly raised her lips in a warm and mischievous smile. She looked to Scarlett, held her blue eyes for a moment, before her cousin put some puzzle pieces together and shook her blonde curls. “No…. No, no no!” she protested.
“You didn’t exactly take no for an answer at the swimming club,” Natalie reminded her.
“That was different!” Scarlett retorted. “We were in swimsuits, and it was just a bit of fun. Anyway, you didn’t exactly say no.”
“I didn’t get a chance, you all surprised me.” Natalie snapped her fingers and pointed to the cake. “And you’re still a dirty cheater.”
Natalie watched her cousin make the calculation: a little playful and private embarrassment here in her bathroom, with a close relative, might not be such a heavy price to pay to get out of this situation without completely exposing herself. She’d just have to figure out a way to get to the laptop and shut it down before Natalie really saw what was on it.
With an exaggerated sigh, Scarlett sank to her knees. She gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, tossed her head to flick some of her blonde mane out of her eyes. “All right,” she said, looking down at the cake. “Let me have it.”
“Do it yourself,” Natalie replied. “Cheaters don’t get any more help.”
“Ugh, fine,” Scar grumbled. She steeled herself, tensing her shoulders. Natalie glanced down Scarlett’s legs, saw her muscles rippled under taut spandex. Even her toes curled as she braced herself. Then… flop. She bent over, pushing her face straight into the cake.
“Bleh,” Scarlett muttered through a mouthful of cream and crumbs. She pushed herself back from the toilet and blinked up at Natalie, who could not help but laugh at the sight. Those ever-present blonde coils had not quite escaped and were now streaked with cream and strawberry sauce, while her apple-shaped face was smeared with the substances of the cake. Blue eyes sparkled as they stared dolefully out of the mess. Natalie could not help but feel a little thrill at the pleading that brimmed within them. Where had that come from?
“Well, that sucked,” Scarlett said, puffing out some crumbs and air. Her breathing grew heavier; obviously the gateaux was still chilled. Natalie wondered if the beans were as well. “You win. No more cheating, and no more swim club surprises. Ok?”
“Ok.”
Scarlett sagged to the floor, coiling her legs around herself. “Great. Could you grab me a towel?”
“The one next to the tin of beans?” Natalie asked, adding just enough emphasis to her demure enquiry to elicit a cringe from her cousin.
“Shit,” Scarlett murmured. The jig was up. Her eyes turned upwards, pleading in even more earnest, but as her breathing slowed and her legs stayed hugged against her, Scarlett clearly knew there was no escaping here. Slowly she accepted that it was not a question of if Natalie would find out what was going on, but how much she was going to rub it in. And how literally. Natalie could see it in her cousin’s baleful expression: she was doomed. DOOOOOMED.
“Stand up,” ordered Natalie, pleased and more than a little surprised as Scarlett obeyed. She grabbed the can of beans, already open, and the stench of a thin tomato sauce had already permeated the bathroom. How Scar thought she was going to get away with this, Natalie did not know. Wishful thinking, she supposed. Now Natalie made good on the dare’s second suggestion. With Scarlett standing here, head hung in shame as she awaited the inevitable, Natalie plucked the back of her cousin’s leggings and peeled them away from her bottom. Then she let go, sending them crashing into her butt with a smack.
“Oh!” Scarlett exclaimed.
“Whoops, finger slipped,” said Natalie. She gripped the waistband again, gathering up the edge of the girl’s underpants too, and pried them both away from her bare, round bottom.
Scarlett held a hand to her face, eyes clenched shut, as though not being able to see would stop it from happening.
It didn’t work; Natalie up-ended the tall tin in one swift move, dumping the entire dollop of beans and sauce down Scarlett’s underpants. She let them and the leggings snap back again, leaving a misshapen clump where a pert posterior had previously been. The seat of Scarlett’s leggings grew dark and shiny as they seeped with sauce.
“Euuugh,” said Scarlett, stamping her feet from the sensation. She clenched her fingers and pressed her arms to her sides, tensing up as though trying to trying to get away from her own skin as the lumpy slime slid down its surface. “I hate you so much,” she added, breaking into a giggle at her own strange situation. She sucked in some air, swelling her little tank top, and then let out a heavy sigh. “Let me guess, now it’s time for a cold shower?”
Natalie shook her head. Inspiration flowed now, as she watched her cousin shift and squirm uncomfortably on the spot, cake smeared across her face and hair and a hefty dollop of beans causing her sodden leggings to sag. Natalie had other plans before this poor girl was going to be allowed to shower off the shame.
“You know what goes great with cake?” Natalie asked. Before a confused Scarlett could stammer an answer, Natalie let the shoe drop. “Ice cream.”
“Ice cream?!” squealed Scarlett. “No way! Don’t you dare!”
But Natalie had already opened the door, and was heading out onto the landing.
“I’ll lock you out!” Scarlett snapped.
“Then I’ll just see what interesting things are on your laptop that I could post to Facebook,” Natalie retorted. She slipped down the stairs, feet feeling light, and did not even have to check over her shoulder whether her cousin had truly locked the bathroom. She knew that Scarlett knew there was no getting out of this. And the poor girl couldn’t even waddle her way to the living room to shut down the computer without risking a trail of tiny sauce stains all along the carpet. Scarlett was free, and yet Scarlett was utterly trapped.
When Natalie returned, she found a crestfallen Scarlett still standing in the middle of the bathroom floor, patiently awaiting her continued punishment. Scarlett’s lips were pursed and her face pinched, as she continued to try to avoid the sensations tickling her tense body. Natalie left her final surprise just outside the door and drew Scarlett’s gaze with a big bowl of ice-cream.
“Two scoops,” cooed Natalie. “Wonder where these should go.”
“You could always do with the padding,” Scarlett retorted.
Natalie let out a laugh. “Meow.” It was certainly true that she had the slimmer figure; her slightly taller cousin filled out a swimsuit with some quantity of curve, compared to Natalie’s skinny sinew. But true or not, a dig like that would cost her. Natalie dug her spoon into the bowl, pulling out a huge scoop that was still cold enough to send ghostly wisps of condensation into the warm bathroom air.
Scarlett’s eyes widened as she peered into the thin mist. She held up her hands, retreated an awkward step. “Ok, I take it back.”
Natalie stepped forward. Scarlett winced as her bean-laden butt pressed against the glass door of the shower. “Eeeh,” she groaned. “I didn’t mean it, really!”
“Yes you did,” Natalie replied. She stepped in front of her cousin, and had to admit to a thrill sending a wave of goosebumps rippling across her skin as she held her spoon out to her cornered victim. Scarlett shifted left and right, searching for any avenue to escape, leaving herself looking as though she desperately needed the bathroom. And desperate she was, panting, holding up trembling hands, shoulders already sinking in against her neck as she braced for the cold consequences of her insult.
“Fine,” she said at last, finally growing still. “I totally did mean it.” Natalie imagined the parting shot at least gave Scarlett a little sense of power, as she stood powerless in the face of inevitably growing cold and damp. Silent, Natalie reached for the neckline of her cousin’s pink cotton tanktop. She pulled it away from skin that glistened with sparse pinpricks of sweat; this house was always warm, but on an early autumn evening it seemed unlikely such thin clothing would make a girl so hot and bothered. Unless it was something else that was making Scar feel hot.
Natalie turned the spoon over. It took a moment, a quiet and heart-stopping moment, as the dollop of pale ice cream hovered over a soft bosom. Natalie thought she could see Scarlett’s heart quicken; she knew she could see the girl hold in a deep breath.
The dollop fell. Scarlett shrieked as the cold splattered onto her chest. Slowly, it streaked its way down her skin, leaving a yellow streak. Scarlett groaned and breathed again, sucking in and out swiftly as she tried to ignore the cold. The second scoop followed, joining the first in a messy mixture. Natalie let go of her tank top, letting it press back against her chest, leaving a strange shape that leaked dampness out through the thin material.
“This sucks!” Scarlett said at last. She opened the door behind her and stepped into the shower cubicle. “Maybe cold water will actually feel good compared to frickin’ ice cream.”
As the door closed again, Natalie stared for a moment. Once more she remembered that night in the swimming club, her bewilderment and sense of excited unease as her cousin sat in a box so similar to this one. Then her stomach lurched, just as it had when she was beckoned forth and found herself sat in there as well. Strange how a little chamber dedicated to one of the most basic of human functions now took on such significance. Ironic significance, as well, considering what had happened to the girls next. Wearing a swimsuit then had felt strange; it was far from the first time Natalie had been clad in strappy spandex in the shower, swimming at public baths or on the beach was quite the norm, and nobody gave much thought to rinsing off before or after. Yet somehow it seemed kind of forbidden to be dressed like that, or dressed at all, while a few gallons of sludge oozed all over and inside it. Forbidden, and somehow invited by that particular outfit. It was a swimsuit, after all, and the slop slid straight off under the spray of water. The next time Natalie had felt the slithering sensations of slime stroking her skin, she had been in a real shower, naked and completely unsuspecting of what was about to land on her. This time, she could not help but curiously consider just what it would be like to feel the weight of gunge holding down her regular clothes.
Well, time to think about these things later. Scarlett’s lesson was not yet over.
Natalie pulled open the door and proffered the rest of the supplies she found in the kitchen.
“Oh what now?” Scarlett said with a dramatic sigh. Natalie’s smile and the waggle of a brown chocolate sauce bottle and a can of squirting cream said it all. Shaking her head, Scarlett pressed her hands to the side of the tank. Shower. Whatever. She smiled with resigned mirth. “Oh go ahead, might as well finish me off.”
Natalie got to work. She shook the can and squirted thick clots of cream, adorning Scarlett’s underarms as though she were spraying deodorant. Scarlett shivered at the cold and giggled at the sensation, but gamely held her ground, letting her cousin finish the entire can as she ran the rest around her body and into the front and back of her leggings. With puffy white lumps sticking out from everywhere, Scarlett sank to her knees, allowing Natalie an easier angle to pour the sauce that slowly slicked Scarlett’s blonde curls.
“Eugh,” Scarlett sputted as the sauce steaked down her face. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, then ran her hands through her hair to complete her coating. Matted and sticky, the clumps that had been curls were unrecognisable as her once soft and shimmering hairdo. Holding out her fingers, trying not to slip on the floor of the shower, Scarlett struggled to right herself as she regarded her slimer through a sauce-induced squint. “Thanks a lot.”
“I’ve got one surprise left,” said Natalie, beaming as she observed her handiwork. The poor girl before her must feel a frightful mess: hair plastered with sticky sauce, face smeared with chocolate and cake, her clothes flooded with gooey lumps of cream, ice-cream and baked beans. Everything was sticking to her, every move or breath must have felt so weird, and that mix of sensations and temperatures kept her mind on every bit of it at every moment. And that was just the physical feeling: she also had to deal with the fact that she was not alone. She was being put through this, by her own cousin, who was now obviously aware of Scarlett’s predilections and preferences. What had been planned as a quiet and self-indulgent afternoon had turned into a situation that would have uncomfortable consequences that lasted well beyond the feeling of a tin of beans in one’s underpants and a private if chilly shower.
Natalie may have been projecting, but she suspected not. She remembered that crushing, humbling feeling when Keira made it clear she understood what Natalie had been driving at. Apparently she understood it better than Natalie had herself. And still Natalie was not sure how she would describe it, or what she would call it, but at this moment in this bathroom she knew one thing: she was having a hell of a lot of fun.
“Oh boy,” Scarlett moaned. She let out a mock whimper, blue eyes taking on that pleading quality again as she stared out from the mix of cream and chocolate. “Please, no more!”
“This is the last of it, I promise,” Natalie replied. With Scarlett’s resigned sigh, she took her cue and slipped out of the bathroom. When she returned, she carried a squat silver pail, and devoured the visual before her as Scarlett backed into the corner of the shower and let her jaw drop.
“No!” she said, no longer demure but quite resolute. “No way!”
“What?” asked Natalie innocently. She set down the pail and pulled off the lid, like a waiter revealing a delectable dish. But there was nothing delicious in this bucket. A putrid stench wafted from it as the lid was raised. Inside was around a gallon’s worth of eggshells, coffee grounds, banana peels, rotten fruit and sundry other sludge: compost.
“NO!” squealed Scarlett. She fell to her knees, held her hands together in earnest pleading. “Not that! I’ve learned my lesson!”
Natalie raised the hefty bucket up high.
“God, no!” begged Scarlett. “That’s too much, Natalie. It’s so gross,” she added with a whine, wrinkling her nose and trying to draw back from the hovering bucket.
Natalie looked at her cousin, the normally confident and cocky head-turner reduced to a quivering, sludgy girl begging to avoid the worst. Normally she gave the guys whiplash, and she had given Natalie some very uncomfortable sensations when visiting that darn swimming club, but… she was right. Chocolate and ice-cream were one thing, but compost was probably going a bit far. Who knew if Scarlett’s clothes could be rescued from the stains of strawberry gateaux and chocolate sauce? Her underpants weren’t likely to get that seeping orange sauce out easily. But at least Scarlett had been planning on something happening to them anyway; that dare she had decided to put herself through likely would not have ended until she was shivering and sodden in the shower. And that was all fun and games, but the stench of the compost was overpowering from here, and who knew how many washings it would take to get it out of the poor girl’s golden hair?
“All right,” said Natalie, relenting. As she lowered the bucket, Scarlett sagged against the shower wall in relief.
“Thanks, Nat,” she said, beginning to breathe again.
Natalie stared at her. “What did you call me?”
Scarlett stared back. Her blue eyes widened, her mouth gaped, and that she paid for. “No, no, I didn’t—AHH!”
Natalie tipped the compost straight over Scarlett’s head. No gentle pour, no teasing with the odd slop here and there over the lip of the container; she just dumped the whole lot straight over her cousin. Gritty, mushy brown gunk coated her hair, sealing over whatever strands of blonde were left. Eggshells stuck amid the chocolate sauce, clumps of rotten fruit and unidentified nastiness were caught in its tarry texture. Stinking debris scattered everywhere, ran down Scarlett’s shirt and arms and gathered against her chest and at her feet. As a denouement, a brown banana peel plopped onto her head.
After the scream, Scarlett held her breath as long as she could. Finally, quietly, she murmured with the tension of a mouth trying not to take in any air at all. “Oh. My. GOD.”
“I told you,” said Natalie, “Don’t call me Nat. I’m not a bloody insect.”
“I hate you,” Scarlett grumbled. She sniffed a little, then seemed to regret it as her face contorted in revulsion at the awful smell trapped in the tiny shower cubicle. “You are so dead.”
CLICK
Scarlett looked up, peering from beneath a mini mountain of coffee grounds, chocolate and banana skin to see her dear, smirking cousin proudly holding a camera phone. Natalie was gratified to see Scarlett simply hang her head again, acknowledging total defeat. There would be no revenge, there would be no one-upping. Not unless she wanted her hobby and her humiliation spread across the Internet.
“Told you you’re a dirty cheater,” said Natalie.
“God…” was all Scarlett could summon, groaning as she cringed at the whole situation.
“Now you get cleaned up,” Natalie ordered, taking on the air of her aunt, Scarlett’s own mother, who all in the family thought of as having a bit of a bossy streak. Natalie gripped the cord to the side of the shower cubicle and gave it a tug; so like the tank Scarlett had dragged her into only a few weeks ago, that little external tug set of a cascade of sensation for the occupant. Scarlett screamed again; as per her dare, the water was completely cold.
Image may be NSFW.
